Story By Fred Laird It is sad that so much of the vigor of youth is spent acquiring the wisdom of age. January 6th, 2010, the snow that fell the week before Christmas still lingers on the ground; some of it anyway. Thats rare for these parts, these parts being the northwest corner of Virginia, but with temperatures in the twenties and wind chills in the single digits, it hasn’t had a chance to disappear. Sitting here, looking out at it, I think about days bygone when I would have bundled up and ventured forth to one trout stream or another in defiance of the inhospitable weather. No more. I remember when, in the foolishness of youth, I used to laugh at the old joke about Arthur being the worst of the Ritis brothers. Now that he lives with me and complains loudly about the cold and damp, I see the veracity that was hidden in the humor. He moves around a lot, hips, shoulders, ankles, wrists, lately, he’s taken up residence in my left knee. This morning I gave him a good dose of analgesic balm and he’s pretty quiet right now, but I know if I were to take him out for a few hours on Stony Creek or some other nearby stream he’d complain about it for days. While I’m exercising my memory, rather than my body, I recall a day late last February, when the mercury hit forty plus and my brother-in- law, Jim, and I ventured out to Beaver Creek, not far from Harrisonburg. It should be said, here, that neither of us had fished this stream before, but Jim had heard about it at a local fly shop. This particular stretch of the creek runs through private pasture...

By Fred Laird with Photography by Mark Hume A book excerpt from – Casting from the Far Bank The morning sun was cresting the ridge on the east side of the North Branch River and beginning to light the top of Wrightsville Dam. The subtle change in air temperature that it caused began to lift the morning mist that until now had all but obscured the two young boys scaling the scree on their way to the top. The two lads, we’ll call them Charlie and Fred since those were their names, actually, Charlie’s name was David, but we called him Charlie then, so we’ll call him Charlie now. As for Fred, well my name was always Fred and though I’ve been called other things, I see no need to mention them here. As I was saying, they were toting their fishing rods, two cans of night crawlers they’d caught the night before, a genuine war surplus canteen filled with water, and a couple of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, which meant they were good for the day. It was mid to late July and this was the fifth or sixth time the two had climbed the dam since school had let out in June, but this trip was to prove different than the previous ones. As was their habit, they paused at the top to try to throw a few rocks into the reservoir. Fred, being a year older and larger than Charlie had the advantage, but Charlie held his own. The two then continued down the wet side of the dam to the east corner where the spillway was located. They always started fishing there in the back water that the spillway created and it was one of the better spots they...

Story and Photography By Fred Laird It happens every now and then. The astral bodies align, Pisces smiles and all the other deities, apparitions and ethereal entities cooperate so that even a duffer such as myself enjoys a perfect day on the water. Such was the case not long ago. It was a Friday. I know this because, while I’ve settled into a modest retirement, my brother-in-law and usual fishing partner, Jim, still runs a business and is only available for fishing on Fridays and weekends – and I tend to leave the weekends to the working class who have no alternative. Jim had seen fit to have a heart attack that Tuesday night, totally out of character, as he is usually a very considerate person. When we visited him on Thursday, I suggested that he confine any future such events to Saturdays, as that would give him a full week to mend. Anyway, the medical staff at the hospital to which he was confined was adamant about denying his release, even temporarily, though we tried mightily to persuade them of the importance of our planned expedition, so I was forced to face the Shenandoah North Fork on my own. I was running a little later than I had intended. With the heat wave that we’d been experiencing, I figured early on the water was the best approach but, somehow, I’d gotten caught up in the minutia of getting out the door. The first 20 minutes that I’d planned to spend on the water were then used to put route 11 behind me. I’d parked, noting with some pleasure, that there were no other vehicles at the spot. I hurriedly donned my wading boots and headed for the river. About 30 yards from my...